


Sometimes

by thegirl20



Category: Desperate Housewives
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl20/pseuds/thegirl20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

Sometimes, just the thought of her can sustain me. Vivid memories of days and nights spent together can keep me going through the drudgery that has become my life. Emptying the drier isn’t a chore if I think about her smile. Cleaning up after dinner flies by when I close my eyes and imagine standing close to her, floating away on the scent of lavender.  
  
Sometimes, it’s enough to see her. She could be driving by in her car. Or she might be out in her garden, working on her prized azaleas. Simply seeing her walk to the mailbox brightens my whole day, especially if she lifts her hand to wave to me. Sometimes seeing her hurts. When she’s with him. She’s so perfect, that associating her with the ugly emotion of jealousy almost seems sacrilegious. But I can’t help it.  
  
Sometimes, I need to speak to her. At poker, I’ll sit next to her and initiate a conversation so that she’s focused solely on me. Her voice soothes me and I get lost in her eyes. Some evenings I’ll go to her house. We’ll drink coffee, or wine. We laugh and whisper and become silly little girls. I never see her this way with anyone else and it warms me to know that. And I go home all the more sad for it. Sad that I can’t be with her all the time. Sad that I can’t feel the same way for my husband.  
  
Sometimes, I simply must touch her. I lightly brush her arm as we sit side by side on Susan’s bench. I wipe non-existent lint from her sweater. I meld the length of my body up against hers in her laundry room when her husband is upstairs. I press my lips against the pulse point in her neck as she moans and begs me not to stop. I run my tongue along her jaw, tasting tears, unsure if I’ve caused them. I bury my face in her shoulder, hidden away from the world by a curtain of copper.  
  
Sometimes, I have to have her. In her bed, on expensive sheets. My hands map the contours of her body as she writhes beneath me. My eyes drink in the sight of her, free and uninhibited. I worship every inch of her with my mouth, my lips, my tongue. I revel in the sounds she makes, unintelligible, raw, needy. And when she lets go, I know she is mine.   
  
Sometimes it’s enough.  
  
And sometimes it’s not.


End file.
